


The Language Keepers

by Kittycathead



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Conspiracy, Dystopia, Gen, I have no idea what I'm doing, I will update tags as I see fit, Political conspiracy, Science Fiction, agenda 2030, agenda 21, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29780280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittycathead/pseuds/Kittycathead
Summary: You've never heard of us? Good.Things are a bit dire, and so we've been forced into the underground.But they've been finding us, and I don't know what else I'm supposed to do at this point. They've been after our leaders, who are all so mysterious that nobody has ever seen their faces. And now they're after me, because I've been swamped so deep into this that I'm slowly drowning from the consequences.The fact that you're here is putting you in grave danger. Read at your own risk, I guess.And even if you don't, always remember: freedom is worth more than anything you could possibly imagine.
Kudos: 2





	The Language Keepers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> I'm glad you found my fic, and I hope I don't disappoint!
> 
> Fair warning: the Hetalia cast you know and love is taking a backseat, and the plot is going to revolve around a set of original characters. The Hetalians will still play a major role in the plot, I promise. I'm just trying to experiment with writing to try to make this seem somewhat like a mainstream novel while still maintaining its fanfiction status, I guess. 
> 
> If this offends you, I won't hold it against you if you leave. All I ask is that you have a great day. :D
> 
> Otherwise, if you stay, thanks for making mine!

The wind combs through my hair like the steady fingers of a mother as I sprint through the forest. The night air is pressing in on me, threatening to make me dizzy with its humidity.

Nobody’s chasing me, but I’m out three hours past government curfew, and I need to return to the Kvarter before I get caught by somebody. The government treats rule breakers like cockroaches, and I don’t want to end up in a fumigation attempt.

It doesn’t take long for me to reach a clearing, and I glance around quickly, making sure no eyes are peering at me through the thick surroundings. Once I’m certain nobody is there, I stride towards the center, feeling the ground for a small hole to place my fingers.

_Found it!_

I lift it up with some trouble. Why does the stupid lid have to be so freaking  _heavy?_ Maybe it’s to keep intruders out, I don’t know. Either way, it’s annoying. 

I slip into the opening I just made, and carefully reposition the lid before hesitantly descending the ladder.  I check my watch, and it says  _ 23:02. _

_ Crap. _ I forgot that the official  Kvarter curfew is 23:00. 

The tunnel that I’m in is little more than packed dirt with metal handles protruding from the walls. They’re awfully dirty, and probably haven’t been cleaned in months.

There are lights wedged into the dirt between some of the rungs, and a few of them flicker. The entire passage is cool,  about the natural temperature of the ground, and smells like damp earth. 

Anxiety shoots through my veins when I reach the bottom.  I’ve heard more than a few strange tales of what happens to people after Kvarter curfew.  Supposedly, there’s a man that wanders the halls at night, because it gives them time to think.  Some of the other teenagers have speculated that  it might be Mark, the mystery man that nobody has ever seen.  He locks himself in an obscure office at the very back of the Kvarter.

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and glance at my surroundings.  The main halls of the Kvarter  look pretty similar to the passage I descended from – they’re crude, and smell like the base of nature.  Lights are embedded in the walls in a similar  way to the descending passage, but the difference is that instead of rungs leading up, there are  beige doors leading to the end of the maze of hallways.  Many of them have numbers on them, and these are the residential doors. 

The ones that don’t have numbers are business doors. These are the offices of those with a profession.  Instead of having numbers, they have a window, as well as a sign above them announcing the name of the business. 

Why do we have businesses down here when we could go up to the surface and buy much more advanced technology, you ask?

It’s plain and simple: we don’t want to be discovered, and we don’t want to support the Order.  Why support their economy when they destroyed ours?

It’s been forty-three years since the New World Order has been established, and I’ve been alive for nineteen of them.  My parents and I are one of the only families in the Kvarter that has permission to visit the surface, so I’ve seen a few things. 

There are a few ground rules on the surface that I’ve learned to watch out for whenever I’m up there.

Rule number one: never, and I mean  _ never, _ disagree with the mob. There is hell to pay. 

I remember there was this bill that was being passed around one time, I don’t remember what for, but someone tried to vocalize why the bill might not be the best idea.  Everyone got so angry at them that they brought out the government’s forces to  apparently drag them to a  ~~ concentration ~~ reeducation camp about five miles out from Copenhagen. 

Rule two: do  _not_ try to make jokes. Ever. You might upset someone, and that will evoke the same response as rule number one. 

And rule number three, perhaps the most crucial of them all:  _do not ever speak a language that is not labeled as common tongue._

Doing so could elicit the same response as the other two rules, but you also run the risk of having the Kvarter discovered by the government. If they discover the Kvarter, and Mark by extension (as I’ve been told), it’s game over.  You can kiss your freedom  (and also th e Danish language) goodbye.

What are the common languages, you ask? Well, any language that had more than 500 million speakers at the time of the Order’s establishment was deemed a common language, which means that the common tongues are English, Hindi, Mandarin Chinese, and Spanish.  Ever since the Great Reset, though, the global population has been around 300 million people (officially, that is). 

They don’t know about the Kvarter, and it’s not counted on their population roster as a result. It’s not like we’d make a large dent, since there’s probably about  five to ten thousand of us. Which brings us back to reality, in the Kvarter. 

Adrenaline is piling up in the back of my mind, and I tiptoe forward after seeing that the coast is clear.  I know that some rules exist to be broken, but I never considered Kvarter curfew to be one of them.  I honestly broke it by complete accident.  I was touring the city at night, avoiding the officials and practicing my ninja skills, and I got carried away. Now I’m late. I hope my parents will let me into my apartment. 

(Considering they tend to lock up five minutes beforehand, I think I’m screwed.)

Nonetheless, I sneak my way around the hallways,  pulling out a compact mirror from the pocket of my leggings.  I’ve made a habit of carrying one around because it’s more efficient to glance down at it to get the surroundings behind me than it is to turn my head around.  It saves energy and time. 

I sneak towards the direction of my apartment,  glancing at the mirror every few seconds to make sure there’s nobody else out that could potentially be following me.  If there is anyone out here, I bet they know I’m here too because of how loud my heart is pounding against my chest. It’s like a strange drum  that’s underscoring the boss music that’s playing in my head. 

It doesn’t take me too long to reach my apartment door, and to my great disappointment, it’s been locked and bolted.  I’m stuck out here for the rest of the night, until 06:00 tomorrow morning. 

I glance at my watch again.  _23:26._

Guess I should just make myself comfortable and hope that nobody is out here, waiting to get me. 

It doesn’t take me long to fall into a fitful and uneasy sleep.

–

My neck is  _killing_ me.  I definitely shouldn’t have fallen asleep against a wall. 

My watch says  _02:39_ , and I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep, even though I’m dead tired.  I haven’t gotten a good, long, 8-hour sleep for the last week, and it’s really taking a toll on me.  (It’s not helping that I eat the absolute bare minimum to survive. It’s something I’ve done for years.) 

I stand up, my legs wobbly from my tiredness, and pull out my mirror again.  Part of me feel s like I’m going to collapse at any second, but I have to keep going. Perhaps it’ll wake me up. 

I begin my small stroll, glancing down at my  mirror less frequently than I probably should be.  My vision is blurry, and  I continually have to stifle yawns. 

There’s a garbage disposal within my sight that I’m planning on sleeping in tonight, so that nobody sees me during the rest of the night.  But that plan is interrupted when my legs suddenly give out, and I fall to the ground. 

Ten more steps. That’s all I need to get there, but my legs gave up before I could reach my solace. 

I try to stand up again, but all energy seems to have escaped me. My mirror is just out of my reach.  I attempt to do an army crawl to reach my little compact, but suddenly footsteps ring out and stop in front of me.  I freeze.

Game over. 

M y eyes meet a black boot, and as I try to glance upward, I notice that the boot stops at the knee and meets Adidas sweatpants. The person also appears to be wearing a black sweatshirt, the hood of which is obscuring their face. 

“ What are you doing out here this late?” they ask. They have a masculine sounding voice.

My brain decides to fail me, and the only thing I can get out is “What are  _you_ ?” 

He chuckles somewhat darkly, and my adrenaline rate spikes again. It doesn’t help me gather energy, unfortunately. 

“That doesn’t matter right now,” he replies, extending a hand towards me. “Come with me.”

Seeing as I have no other option, I take it, and let him help me up.  The tiredness I’m feeling, combined with the fact that I’m using more energy than  I allotted myself with  my food intake,  causes me to be forced to lean on him for balance. 

He takes me down the hallway, and when I glance back at where my mirror was, I panic. It’s not there. 

“Looking for this?” he asks with the sound of a grin in his voice.

I turn around, and there it is, in his pale hand.  I gratefully take it, and stuff it quickly into the pocket of my leggings. 

“ You know,” he starts, “using the mirror like that is a really smart idea.”

“And?”

“What’s not a smart idea is wandering around the Kvarter at this ungodly hour. Who knows? What if I hadn’t found you, and you’d encountered someone with much more malicious intentions instead?” He chuckle s  again , and I mentally  prepare myself for a lecture which surprisingly doesn’t come. “But then again, nobody’s ever been out of their house past the curfew that I’ve seen. You’re the first social interaction I’ve had in twenty years.”

“ I’m nineteen.”

“ Gee, time sure flies, doesn’t it?” he mutters wistfully, and it strikes me that he’s exuding an aura that suggests he’s  _much_ older than he looks. 

I say nothing for a while, and the silence mutates into something awkward.

“ So, uh, what  _was_ the last social interaction you had?”

Crap. That question was  _not_ supposed to slip out. Curse me and my big mouth.

“ It was when the vice chief came in to install a device in my office that could talk to anyone at any time without having to leave the room. Basically, he was the last person to see my face.”

That’s when it immediately clicks. _Oh my God, I’m talking to Mark._

He seems to see the shock on my face, and says, “I see you’ve realized now.” 

I nod.  So him hiding his face was intentional.

“ After the vice chief left, that’s when the curfew was _really_ beginning to get enforced, and it was at that point that I began to consider it a rule that was made to be broken.  I’m honestly surprised it took twenty whole years for it to happen.”

I nod, not sure what to say. It sounds like Mark just needs someone to listen.

“ What  _are_ you doing out this late, anyway?” he asks, and it catches me off guard.

“Well, uh, to be totally honest, I was sneaking around on the surface, and came back just after curfew. I’m both surprised and also not surprised that my parents locked me out of the apartment.”

“ I would say they should have waited for you, but if they did, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“ Don’t say it like that, I’m nothing special.”

“ Sure you are. You’re a Language Keeper. If you were nothing special, you’d be up there on the surface, sleeping, and speaking English when awake.”

(Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention this entire conversation is actually in  a language called Danish.  Most people on the surface haven’t heard of it.  I mean, sure, I know English. I have to. I only use it on the surface, though,  and sometimes at home, to make sure I don’t have a Danish accent. )

Suddenly, we stop in front of a door in the very back end of the maze of hallways.  _Mark’s office._ But why did he take me here?

He opens the door with a hidden key, and  brings me inside the office. My eyes meet the sight of many photographs on a bulletin board on the back wall.  They vary in age, but one thing remains constant – the presence of a young man who hasn’t aged a bit.  He has spiky hair that dances in the air, going directly against the pull of gravity.  It’s blond, and it’s hard to tell whether or not it’s been gelled.  He wears a strange getup, too. He has a tiny hat, a long black coat with long sleeves that have red cuffs, a red shirt, a black tie, red pants, and black boots. 

Mark closes the door behind the two of us, and judging from the satisfying ‘click,’ it seems to have locked automatically.  He sits at the oak desk that’s in front of the bulletin board and sighs. 

“It’s been so long since someone’s been in this office, you know that?”

I yawn, remembering how tired I am. I glance at my watch.  _03:01._

“ You look like you need sleep. Wait there.”

He enters a passageway I didn’t notice before, and comes out a few minutes later with a cot, a sleeping bag, and a pillow. Once he’s finished setting everything up, he gestures to it, indicating that I should use it. 

With some trouble, I slip into the sleeping bag and rest my head on the pillow.  It doesn’t take me long to get into a semi-comfortable position and drift off into a sleepy world of oblivion.


End file.
